


the quick release

by actualflower



Category: Masquerada: Songs and Shadows (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, a tristan lives au for all ur tristan lives au needs, with a healthy dose of 'these boys need to fall in love'
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-11-14 07:45:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11203539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actualflower/pseuds/actualflower
Summary: “So this is what Salting is like,” Tristan says, as if his vision isn’t tripled and he can feel his legs. The bridge seems impossibly long, so much longer than what he thought, and he dimly feels himself turn, puppeted by the need to keep moving, because if he stops he has a feeling that he’s never going to move again.Tristan doesn't die on the bridge. A few things change. A few things stay the same.





	1. if such there breathe, go, mark him well

**Author's Note:**

> i'd like to give a big ol shoutout to the masquerada discord for being absolute lads and a constant source of inspiration. y'all are awesome, bless y'all. the chapter number is a very rough prediction - i have about 8,000 words written, but i want to break it into manageable chunks and edit it. this is unbeta'd, by the way, so any and all mistakes are my own. feel free to leave comments/criticism!
> 
> work title from Red Sparrow by Mree.
> 
> please enjoy ♥

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,  
>  Who never to himself hath said,  
> This is my own, my native land!  
> Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,  
> As home his footsteps he hath turn'd  
> From wandering on a foreign strand!  
> If such there breathe, go, mark him well;  
> For him no Minstrel raptures swell;  
> High though his titles, proud his name,  
> Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;  
> Despite those titles, power, and pelf,  
> The wretch, concentred all in self,  
> Living, shall forfeit fair renown,  
> And, doubly dying, shall go down  
> To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,  
> Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung. _
> 
> \- My Native Land, Sir Walter Scott.

“So this is what Salting is like,” Tristan says, as if his vision isn’t tripled and he can feel his legs. The bridge seems impossibly long, so much longer than what he thought, and he dimly feels himself turn, puppeted by the need to keep moving, because if he stops he has a feeling that he’s never going to move again.

He feels something sigh in the back of his mind, and while he pushes himself ever further, feels the black creep in at the edge of his vision and his arm twitch at just the wrong moment, he spares a thought for what feels like something   _else_ in his mind. He doesn’t get long, though, because there’s a sword coming down on his arm, and then there _is_ no arm.

Pain like ice lances through his body, and he falls to the ground in a scream, convulsing. It’s the most terrified he’s ever been, and he wishes, for a brief moment, that someone will kill him quickly.

He has never been so lucky.

The despots who are left kick him to the edge of the broken bridge and then further, and he plummets to the dark water below. Just before he breaks the surface, he dreams he can hear someone screaming “No!”, and then all that’s left is ice.

* * *

 

He does not know how long passes. For a long time, all he knows is cold and sand and multiplicity - memories he does not know, cannot name, run behind his eyelids. He screams sometimes, when he wakes, but his throat grows raw and bloody and he cannot scream anymore.

Eventually, he tires and sleeps once more.

The world becomes warmth and light, at some point, but there are too many jagged edges in his mind, too many people speaking too many things he does and does not understand, so he does his best to try and ignore it all.

* * *

Tristan opens his eyes to a wooden roof. He blinks for a moment, two. Thinks: _I should be dead;_ and then: _Thank the Ages I’m not._

“Easy now,” comes a voice from his left, and he instinctively turns to face it, regretting the decision as it jostles the stump of his arm-

_Oh. That._ He winces sharply, and the voice chuckles.

Tristan recognizes the blue of the Sorelle before anything else - Kalden, his name was. He fights to get his tongue to cooperate, but when he tries to speak, there’s a jumble of vowels and not much else.

“Do you remember Salting?” Tristan nods, not trusting his voice. He remembers the bridge, and the burning cold, and -

He’s struck by violent tremors, then, and Kalden rests a hand on his arm to steady him. “Easy now, Valencio.”

It takes him a long moment to order his thoughts, longer still to try and steady his tongue enough to speak them. “H-h-how l-l-”

“How long have you been asleep?” Kalden finishes, and Tristan nods. When Kalden sighs instead of responding, Tristan’s heart clenched in his chest. _Surely it can't have been that long…?_

“A month, give or take. We found you a few weeks after the battle, under the river, surrounded in ice. Seems you saved yourself from death, even Salted.” Kalden sighs, and Tristan gets the distinct feeling that it's not the end of the story.

“You've woken several times, but this is the first you've been lucid enough to try and speak.” Kalden pats his complete arm. “We've had to call Vasco in every other time. He seemed to be the only one who could calm you down.”

The name throws him for a moment, until he remembers the dark-haired flute of a man who'd Salted himself for Cicero after -

Well.

After _that_.

Still, it makes him wonder - why would this Vasco, this man who'd saved Cicero when all Tristan had done was follow _orders_ , spend his time _helping_ him?

Kalden lets him think in silence. The man's presence serves to soothe, even with as little Tristan knows of him. At least he knows he's trustworthy.

“C-c-c-”

“Cicero?” Kalden supplies again, and Tristan nods once more. He has a feeling this will quickly get infuriating. There's already a headache buzzing behind his eyes, a swarm of thought like hornets in his brain.

“He shouldn't be busy today. Surprised he hasn't checked in on you more, to be honest.”

Tristan isn't surprised at all, but that doesn't mean it doesn't sting. _At least Cicero is alive._ He nods to Kalden, who stands and ambles to the door, poking his head out for a moment.

Tristan takes a moment to take stock of himself: his toes are responsive, confirmed by the wiggle at the end of the sheets. He clenches his left fist once, twice. He can _feel_ his right fist move with it, even when he looks down and sees nothing past the elbow. Ice swims behind his eyes, and he does his best to breathe through it.

He must be lost in his reverie longer than he thinks, because he’s being jolted out of it what feels like seconds later by a soft touch and a gentle, “Tristan?”

“ _Good morning, hero,_ ” Tristan says, and at the confusion on Cicero’s face, he realizes he must not have spoken Ombrian.

“I think you said hello, right?” Tristan nods. “Hello to you, too, then. Still having trouble with the languages?” Another nod. “Well. You’re _twice_ as smart as Vasco, so you shouldn’t have a problem-”

“I heard that!” comes a petulant yell from the doorway, and Vasco is there, seemingly from thin air. There’s a mischievous smile on his face, almost matched by the grin on Cicero’s. _Airbrands,_ he thinks, exasperated.

“ _I_ _think he’s just jealous that he doesn’t suddenly know an ancient language._ ” Vasco’s voice flows smooth with the Dimenticate, and Tristan smiles despite himself. He finds his eyes drawn to him, all the languid grace of someone of the purple guild, and though Tristan has his own squabbles with that guild, it’s easy to put them aside. Especially since they stayed.

“ _Perhaps,_ ” Tristan responds, and the smile on Vasco’s face is blinding.

“- _As_ I was saying,” Cicero continues, “you shouldn’t have trouble speaking again. You’re one of the strongest people I know, Tristan.” There’s something lurking under the surface of those words, a conversation that’s waiting to be had, and Tristan doesn’t know if he’ll ever be ready for it.

Still.

Cicero’s hand gives his remaining arm a firm grip at the elbow, and he smiles down at Tristan. He’s already exhausted, just by this minimal interaction, but he doesn’t want to rest. He wants to move around, get back up, back on his feet, be a part of what’s happening, but he knows if he tries there’s no doubt they’ll all just shove him back in a bed again.

“Good to see you back, old friend.”

“G-g-g-ood t-to s-s-s-”

He stops, impatiently patient, and Cicero waits like he’s got all the time in the world for Tristan to find his words. “Seeyoutoo,” he breathes out in a rush, and feels both humiliated and proud that he can speak. Cicero’s answering grin as he brushes past Vasco to leave only intensifies it -

Vasco. The man had slipped his mind for a moment, but now that he’s the only other living body in the room, it’s hard not to notice him. He walks over from the door, shutting it behind him, his walk making Tristan think of the cats that stalked the alleys of the Citte, hunting whatever poor rodent was unlucky enough to get in their way. He drops into the chair next to the bed in a single fluid motion, lounging like he’s been there for hours.

“So. Tristan Delzole.” There’s venom in his name, and he is remorseful enough to wince. “Back from the dead, in a fashion almost as miraculous as our d-dear Cicero’s.”

He feels like a viper staring down a mongoose. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to say, only feeling shock as he registers Vasco’s words. He lets the shock show on his face, hoping Vasco will answer his unspoken question.

“Not going to speak for you, Valencio. You’ll have to sp-speak for yourself.”

Damn. There goes that idea, then. “W-w-wha-t-t hap-p-p-pened t-t-t-t-”

Vasco waits for him to finish with an enigmatic smile, and it makes Tristan want to swat at the flower vase that’s sitting on the bedside table. Lucky that’s his missing arm’s side, then.

“T-t-t-o Cic-c-c-c-ero?” he finishes, and the little clap Vasco gives makes him scowl.

“Very good! And, as a reward, here’s your answer: he died.”

Tristan stops. Looks at Vasco. Waits for the sign that it’s all some terrible joke he’s being played by.

Vasco laughs sarcastically. “I wouldn’t joke about that, Delzole. I think the universe has given me the best possible punchline it could, T-t-t-t-t-ristan.” He plays up the stutter on his name, and now Tristan sees why Vasco is so hostile: Tristan is the reason he Salted in the first place. And now, Tristan is here, in the same place he was weeks ago, having Salted for the very same man. It’s a type of cruel irony, and one that Vasco is enjoying immensely, by the looks of it.

“G-g-g-g-lad yo-o-ou’re hav-v-v-v-ing-g-g f-fun.” His voice is more tired than he expects. _He_ is more tired than he expects. He’s far, far too tired to parse exactly what all this means: that Cicero died but clearly didn’t stay dead, by the looks of it. That he, for all intents and purposes, should have followed the man into the dark.

“Only a little,” Vasco admits, and Tristan doesn’t believe it for a second. Instead, he turns on his side, the side that still possesses an arm, and pulls the sheets up around himself as if to sleep.

“Don’t be in- _salt_ -ed, Valencio.” He groans at the pun, and then remembers he’s supposed to be sleeping. “I’ll have you speaking p-properly in no time. I did have a fine tutor, myself.” His tone gets distant, misty, but Tristan doesn’t bother turning to see if his expression matches. He hears Vasco stand, pushing the chair back from the bed, and walk to the door. There’s a pause then, as if he waits at the door, but Tristan shuffles more resolutely under the covers. He hears it click, swing, and click again, and Tristan is alone once more.

Almost as soon as he decides that sleeping might actually be a good option, he’s already dozing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew. alright. i hope i can get the chapters out semi-regularly, because i've gotten a fair bit of it actually typed up already, it just needs a glance-over or two.
> 
> anyway, hope y'all enjoyed! feel free to leave a comment or a kudos! they mean a lot to me. ♥
> 
> chapter title from My Native Land by Sir Walter Scott.


	2. but as long accustomed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Am I kin to Sorrow,_   
>  _That so oft_   
>  _Falls the knocker of my door—_   
>  _Neither loud nor soft,_   
>  _But as long accustomed,_   
>  _Under Sorrow’s hand?_   
>  _Marigolds around the step_   
>  _And rosemary stand,_   
>  _And then comes Sorrow—_   
>  _And what does Sorrow care_   
>  _For the rosemary_   
>  _Or the marigolds there?_   
>  _Am I kin to Sorrow?_   
>  _Are we kin?_   
>  _That so oft upon my door—_   
>  _Oh, come in!_
> 
>  
> 
> \- Kin to Sorrow, Edna St. Vincent Millay

The next week passes like this:

Tristan wakes in the morning, generally to one of the Sorelle (most often Kalden) nudging him awake with a bowl of light, bland oatmeal. He eats as much of it as he can stomach (not a lot) and makes polite conversation as they check in with him (he’s making steady progress, they tell him, but he can’t leave quite yet) and tries to smother his stutter as best he can.

When they leave, he quietly summons his mascherine. Sometimes, he just looks at it, smoothing his hand over its surface and wondering: _who were you? Did you ask for this? Will I ever speak to you properly?_

Sometimes, though, he puts it on and thinks of ice, of water, of cold and time.

The first time he tries it, he damn near almost gives himself a heart attack with the panic that floods him, the memories of falling and ice and pain that make his missing limb spasm and ache without relief. Kalden finds him not an hour later, biting his lip bloody to keep from yelling and alerting anyone.

Kalden eases him down from his panic, guiding him to “Breathe, Tristan. Easy now. Breathe with me.” until he didn’t feel like the world was collapsing and his arm didn’t feel like it was being cut off all over again. Kalden looks at the mascherine on his face with a soft accusation, and warns him against using it until he feels better.

He keeps using it, simply because it’s the only thing that makes him feel like he’s at least doing _something_. He just makes sure he keeps quiet.

In the afternoons, he gets a visit from Vasco - never longer than an hour, but never shorter, either. Vasco doesn’t make him speak, but engages him in idle conversation. Whenever Tristan has a question or a response, Vasco makes him say it. It’s infuriating, but it’s an effective enough speech trainer. Sometimes, he’ll make him repeat himself, making Tristan irritable, but even he’s surprised by the progress he’s made in a week’s time.

One day, Vasco is an hour late for their meeting; they’ve never set a time, but Vasco always appeared around the same time everyday. Tristan sneaks a glance at the clock, confirming the thought.

So, Tristan holds his hand out in his lap, thinks about waves, and feels his mascherine settle in his palm. He’s always loved the thing, the bright red and silver lines edged in gold. He grips it tight, feels the material of it flex in his hand, and lifts it to his face -

- _Ice, and cold, and fire, and he isn’t sure how the fire fits until he feels his arm burn white-hot-painful under the maskrunner’s steel, and his head is already fuzzy-hot with static and pain, but he can’t stop, he can’t stop, he’s falling to his knees but he needs to keep moving, Cicero needs him, the Citte needs him, the Citte-_

“Tristan!”

There’s a hand on his shoulder, the one missing its arm, and he focuses on the weight, feeling his heartbeat in his throat.

“Tristan, can you hear me?” He’s shaking too hard to nod properly, but he thinks they understand because they don’t repeat the question. There’s a blur of purple movement on his right side, a smear that coalesces into a human form that eventually becomes Vasco. “Breathe, Tristan. Can’t have you dying on me now.”

He would laugh, if he didn’t feel like that is exactly what’s happening. He grips his left hand tight, hard enough his fingernails bite half-moon crescents into the skin of his palm.

“V-v-v-v-v-” He tries, but the words won’t come out right, and he can barely breathe as is.

“Don’t try to speak. Just breathe, Delzole. In and out, that’s it.” Vasco doesn’t touch him beyond the hand on his shoulder, and he doesn’t know whether to be grateful or to weep.

Eventually, the shuddering breaths subside, and Tristan lets his fist unclench, wincing at the blood that wells in each of the little cuts. Vasco tutts lightly, his hand moving from his shoulder to grab Tristan’s own. Regret fills him at the loss of contact, but he bites it back - the less he feels right now, the better. Vasco’s flautist’s fingers examine his palm carefully, clinically, grabbing a cloth from a drawer in the bedside table and wiping away the little red specks with a gentle hand.

“Now, what brought _that_ on?” Vasco asks softly, his voice sounding a beat away from a laugh but no less genuine in its concern.

Tristan takes a moment to breathe again, and then another, and finally speaks. “T-the w-w-water is not always k-k-kind.” He can’t quite meet the other man’s eyes, and so he settles for watching his hands instead.

Vasco does laugh, a soft huff of a thing. “I suppose not, hm, Valencio? You’d know better than most.” He sees Vasco’s fingers twitch towards his mascherine, a half-aborted movement caught too late.

Tristan’s hand moves to his face, the mask that still rests there. “W-will I ev-v-ver u-use this ag-gain?” He pulls the mask from his face gently, stroking the red inlay with his thumb. His voice is far more sad than he’d like. He doesn’t want to give Vasco any more fuel for his backhanded comments and petty jabs.

Instead of responding, Vasco simply summons his own mascherine to bear, letting it rests in his hands. Purple and red play within golden borders, making swooping lines and deep impressions in the mask itself. It’s a playful mask, one suited to a man like Vasco, and it makes Tristan’s mouth sour with regret.

“I still don’t know her name,” he says. His voice is dangerously soft, filled with a vulnerability Tristan doesn’t think he deserves to hear, but Vasco keeps speaking. “I don’t know if I ever will. Maybe she doesn’t know it, either.” He looks up at Tristan, and Tristan finds his eyes inexorably drawn towards Vasco’s, as well. “Everything doesn’t become suddenly clear because we’ve Salted. It just means we have another set of memories in our heads. Incomplete, fallible, and just as human as the men who hold them.”

Vasco’s mouth cracks into a smile. “I know, surprisingly deep for a man of so many jests. Feel free to hold your applause.”

Tristan smiles despite himself, the panic in his chest almost forgotten. “N-not that surprising, Tessit-t-tore.”

“I’ll have you know I spend a lot of time cultivating my happy-go-lucky attitude, thank you, and I’ll not have you squander all that hard w-work.” He points threateningly at Tristan, but there’s no heat in his words.

Tristan laughs, bright and clear. He’s glad he hasn’t forgotten how to do that, at least. Vasco pouts for a few seconds longer before dismissing his mascherine with a smile. Tristan does the same, letting it fade to a shimmer in the air.

“I wonder where they go when we aren’t using them,” Vasco wonders aloud, and Tristan shrugs. “Do you think the fey would know?” Another shrug. “Gah, you’re useless.” And another.

Vasco finally gives up on trying to get Tristan to speak again. Honestly, he’s feeling exhausted by the whole ordeal. He already can’t sleep at night. He doesn’t want his nightmares chasing into his waking hours, and if that means never using his mascherine again - never using _any_ mascherine again -

Well. He’ll handle that when the time comes.

Vasco flops backwards on the bed, laying horizontal on the foot of it, his feet still touching the ground. He’s more lax around Tristan than he’s ever been before, and Tristan can’t say he minds it.

“Have you spoken to Cicero about it?”

Tristan shakes his head. “No.”

“Why not?”

Tristan looks down at his hand again. “I d-d-don’t s-see him of-t-ten.” It’s easier to say than _I don’t deserve to see him._

“If you asked for him, he’d come.”

Tristan shakes his head. “Don’t want t-to bo-bother him.”

Vasco sighs. “You’re both idiots, then.”

Tristan jabs Vasco in the side with his toes. He winces and glares up at Tristan. “I’m not wrong! Y-you’re both doing nothing but moping around. Very sad, really.”

Tristan just sighs. Vasco does the same.

He spends the rest of his time answering Vasco’s inane questions (”What’s your favorite color?” “B-blue.” “What’s your favorite drink?” “Lemonade.” “What’s your-”) before Vasco hops up from his reclined position and darts out of the door with barely a goodbye.

Tristan doesn’t have it in him to be mad. He’s already half-asleep, anyway. He stays awake long enough to drink a few spoonfuls of the broth the Sorelle nurse brings him for dinner before falling asleep. He dreams of a cathedral, impossibly large, and of a sea dark as night, filled with stars.

* * *

 

The next day he wakes, it’s to a hushed argument in low tones outside of his door. He wakes almost irritable at the intrusion, sure it’s far too early to be woken, but a glance at the clock on the wall tells him he’s actually slept in much later than he usually does. He rubs at his eyes and catches snippets of the conversation that drift through the door.

“-should talk to him, Cicero.” That’s Kalden’s warm rumble, barely perceptible through the door for its baritone depth.

“And say what? That I’m glad he almost died for me? That he’s another person who had to sacrifice himself for me, just so I could-”

“Cicero.”

“It’s true, Kalden, no matter what you say, alright? I don’t think - I don’t think he wants to see me, anyway.” Cicero sounds hurt when he says it, and Tristan is half a second away from calling out for him before Kalden speaks again.

“We’ve had this discussion a thousand times, Cicero, and I’ll always tell you the same thing: we followed you because you are worth following, Cicero. We could never leave you behind. We all knew what we were getting into.”

There’s a moment of silence then, and when Cicero speaks, his voice sounds muffled, as if pressed against cloth. “Thank you, Kalden. You’re too good for me.”

A chuckle. “You’re right, I am.”

Cicero’s voice sounds mock-hurt through the door. “You rude oaf! I ought to-”

He’s cut off suddenly. Kalden is the next to speak, and his voice sounds rougher, deeper, just barely audible through the door. “Doesn’t mean I won’t stay by your side.”

There’s an exchange of words he can’t hear, and then the click of the door. He’s just quick enough to pretend to still be waking, scrubbing at his eyes with his hand again and shoving himself upright.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty.” Cicero seems to barely hold back a laugh as he enters, Kalden just a step behind him. Cicero moves toward the chair on his left, almost unsure, before Tristan sighs and pats it with a grin. “How are you?” he says as he settles into it.

“Fine, I th-think.” Tristan shrugs. “Hav-ven’t died y-yet, so I m-m-must be doing someth-th-thing right.”

Kalden settles on the only other bed in the room, just behind and to the right of Cicero. “Good. You seem to be recovering steadily, as well. I think you’ll be back on your feet in no time. Maybe within the week, if all goes well.”

Tristan nods, pleased to hear it. His recovery from Salting has mostly been mental; most of the bedrest has been from being encased in ice for the better part of a month. He can feel his strength return in strides, though he’s not excited about the prospect of limping around like an invalid for a few months while he remembers how to walk again.

“Tristan...” Cicero starts, and there’s something in his voice that makes him think this conversation won’t be quite as easy as he was hoping. Still, he knew it was coming. It had to happen sooner or later.

“Y-yes, Cicero?” He does his best to sound fondly exasperated.

Cicero gives him a weak little half-smile, but it fades as he continues. “I don’t think we ever really talked about what happened, did we?”

Tristan remembers a quick, uncomfortable conversation made in the rush of impending battle, remembers setting aside his feelings about duty and honor to try and mend what he could between their broken trust, remembers hugging Cicero tightly with both arms and promising to have his back ‘just like old times.’ It was what they needed to get through the night, one neither of them thought they’d both truly survive.

Tristan sighs deeply, leaning against the pillows piled behind him. “N-n-not much to s-say, Cicero.”

“That’s a lie, Tristan, and we both know it.”

“Is it?” he counters. “We b-both know t-t-too much has happened. I don’t regret w-w-what I did. Neither should y-you.”

Cicero is silent for a long moment. “I wish it could be easier.”

Tristan grins. “N-nothing easy is ever w-w-worth it.”

He’s suddenly reminded of what Vasco told him a week before: ‘ _He died. I wouldn’t joke about that._ ’

Cicero must notice his change in demeanor, because it’s not but a few moments later that he’s asking, “What’s wrong, old friend?”

“Vasco t-told me s-something.” He doesn’t know a delicate way to say it, so he doesn’t try. “D-did you really die, Cicero?”

Cicero pales, and Tristan knows instantly it was the wrong thing to say. Kalden, instead, speaks for him. “He did, yes. We’re not sure why or how he’s back, but he is. We think it was fey.” He lists it off like a grocery list, and Tristan nods.

He also notices the way Cicero’s hand seemingly absently searches out Kalden’s own, and Kalden takes it without even looking down. He files that away as a question for another day - he’s already asked enough.

“G-guess that’s another t-thing we have in com-m-mon now, eh, Cicero?” He says, nudging him with his elbow. Cicero breaks out of his reverie and laughs a little, just once. Not perfect, but better.

“I suppose so.” He flashes Tristan a smile. “Well, I don’t want to keep you. I’m sure Vasco will be here soon, and he’ll probably yell at me again about interrupting ‘very important tutelage of the h-highest calibre.’”

Tristan nods. “And I’m sure the h-hero of Ombre has pl-plenty of duties to attend, hims-s-self.” He waves his hand at the door, shooing them out. “Go on, out of h-here.”

Cicero is laughing as he leaves, giving Tristan a wave. His other hand is still holding Kalden’s as he leaves.

Vasco shows up at his normal time an hour later, and if he notices that Tristan is more quiet than usual, he doesn't comment on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter two! things happened! emotions were discussed! i feel like we grew as people, ngl. anyway.
> 
> poems are good, yall. I hope yall like em too.
> 
> find me on tumblr @kaytewrites or @banshee-44


	3. what a wave must be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I never saw a moor,_   
>  _I never saw the sea;_   
>  _Yet now I know how the heather looks,_   
>  _And what a wave must be._   
>    
>  _I never spoke with God,_   
>  _Nor visited in Heaven;_   
>  _Yet certain am I of the spot_   
>  _As if the chart were given._
> 
> \- Chartless, Emily Dickinson.

A few days later, Vasco appears in his room holding a tray of food Tristan is almost certain was not approved by any of the Sorelle nurses that have been tending him the past few weeks. It’s mostly street vendor fare, kabobs and little boxes that smell incredibly greasy and make his mouth water. He’s been eating steadily stronger foods the past week, but he’s been craving something more substantial than oatmeal and broth and pudding.

Vasco carefully sets it all down on the nightstand with a grin, producing a pitcher of lemonade with his other hand.

“W-what is all th-this f-f-for?”

“We're celebrating!”

Tristan gives Vasco a sidelong glance, surreptitiously checking to see if he's grown another head. “What are w-w-we celebrat-t-ting exactly?”

Vasco’s grin gets impossibly wider. “Your return to polite society, of course. I heard the nurses talking about it and wanted to be the one to break the news.”

Tristan raises an eyebrow. “Are you s-sure they w-were talking about me?”

“Almost  _ positive. _ You are the only patient here, after all.” He waves his hand airily, and Tristan files the information away.

“Alright then,” he mutters, and reaches for one of the little boxes.

Eating what Vasco’s brought him is almost easier than eating the nurse's food. He just balances the box between his crossed legs and spears whatever's inside with a fork. When he sees the cup Tristan brought for him, he glares.

It's a children's cup, designed to make sure nothing is spilled. He holds it out to Tristan with a grin, batting his lashes like an innocent.

“Bastard,” Tristan mutters, but there's no heat.

When he takes a sip, it hits him:  _ these are all my favorite foods.  _ From the fried fish to the lemonade. He dimly remembers Vasco’s questioning from days ago, all the questions he'd written off as inane.

Vasco is currently wolfing down a container of noodles like there's no tomorrow. He looks up at Tristan when he senses his eyes on him, noodles still half out of his mouth.

“Why?” His voice is incredulous - how could Vasco do all of this for him? Someone he doesn't even like? They've been getting friendlier recently, sure, but Tristan is under no illusions that they are friends. His duty will always come first. He almost died because of that fact.

Vasco takes a moment to slurp up the rest of the noodles in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Do I need a reason?”

Tristan almost laughs. “I sup-pose not.” Fitting, how enigmatic the answer is. He shakes his head, looking down at the sippy cup in his hand and setting it against his leg before going for his fork again.

Vasco continues eating his noodles in relative silence, and for a while the only sound in the room is that of eating.

“You’re interesting, Tristan Delzole.” His voice breaks the comfortable silence they’d developed, and it has Tristan raising an eyebrow at the man once more. "Do you not agree?"

"Not r-really, no," he says, and takes another bite of fried fish.

Vasco just keeps staring at him, making Tristan feel like he's being weighed on some sort of scale. He looks back down at the carton in his lap, picking through his food. His appetite is suddenly gone.

Vasco must pick up on his mood, because the next words out of his mouth are, "Did I say s-something wrong?"

His voice is so near-hurt that Tristan can't help but feel a little guilty. "No, I j-just..." He sighs. "I'm just f-far from interesting, th-that's all." Tristan flexes the fingers of his hand, setting the fork down in the container. He doesn't know where all this has come from, the strange familiarity in his chest, or the ease with which he lets his walls down around the other man. Just a week ago the man was nearly at his neck, and now he's bringing him his favorite foods and telling him that he's  _ interesting. _ He doesn't understand it. Most of all, he doesn't understand why he  _ likes _ it.

Vasco sighs and sets his carton back on the tray, grabbing the glass of lemonade he'd poured for himself earlier. Tristan is watching his hands again, tapered fingers of one hand sliding through the condensation, drawing misty patterns on the glass absently. Tristan wonders if he can ever stop creating, or if it's just a part of him naturally, innately, easy as breathing.

Vasco looks up at him, then, and Tristan finds his eyes drawn upwards. "I think you're interesting," he says, and something twists in his stomach, something at once everything and nothing like ice. Tristan holds his gaze for a long moment. He can hear the blood rushing in his ears. This moment must mean  _ something, _ it has to, it wouldn't feel this  _ important _ if it didn't-

And then Vasco is huffing out a laugh, sharp as his wit, and the spell is broken.

Tristan shakes his head. What a strange man, indeed.

An hour later, Vasco disappears from the room with a cheery smile and a wave, taking all evidence of their mid-afternoon rendezvous with him save the sippy cup Tristan still holds. He glares down at it one more time for good measure before taking another sip.

When a nurse comes in a few moments later to tell him that he's been deemed well enough for physical activity, he does his best to act surprised.

* * *

 

The next three weeks pass in a haze of exhaustion and frustration - there is little ease in relearning how to walk, especially not for a man as proud as he is. Kalden is a bastion of sanity and ease in the mess of forcing atrophied muscles to move properly, encouraging him to keep going when he knows he can and telling him to rest when he knows he can’t. Tristan thinks he understands why Cicero sticks so close to the man; it's hard not to with the warmth and ease he greets the world with.

Still, he does not stop. He refuses to be bedridden any longer, no matter how exhausting even just walking is.

"You're making fine progress, Valencio," Kalden says easily as he helps Tristan back down onto his bed.

Tristan huffs. "I walked down the hallway t-twice. I'd hardly call that progress."

Kalden chuckles. "Sure, but you did it without my help. I'd call that a win."

Tristan just hums in lieu of responding.

* * *

 

"How's the physical therapy, Valencio?" Vasco greets. He's right on time for their usual meeting, just like it has been for the better part of the past two months.

Tristan glances up from the book he's reading - more report, really, but they're easing him back into his role as Valencio by keeping him updated on the current political climate of the Citte: the status of the various guilds, the formation of the Consilio, how the Portieri fare - Cicero's been largely responsible for keeping the Registry standing as a guild, but he's impatient to foist the responsibility onto whoever everyone decides the next Vaorone will be - Vaorone, of course, being a title holding power solely within the guild itself, now.

It's all incredibly boring, and Tristan is glad for the distraction Vasco presents.

"Awf-ful," he replies with a grin. "I get exhausted just walking around."

"Poor thing," Vasco says, pout on his face. It's quickly exchanged for a mischevious smile. "Want to escape for a while?"

Tristan weighs his options, looks at the novel-length report in his hands, looks back at Vasco. There's really no option here, is there? "Why not?"

Vasco's answering grin is the nicest thing he's seen all day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the short chapter :( next one will be longer, promise!
> 
> we're gettin saucy, yall. I even broke out the Dickinson.


	4. the touch of a vanished hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Break, break, break,_   
>  _On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!_   
>  _And I would that my tongue could utter_   
>  _The thoughts that arise in me._   
>    
>  _O, well for the fisherman's boy,_   
>  _That he shouts with his sister at play!_   
>  _O, well for the sailor lad,_   
>  _That he sings in his boat on the bay!_   
>    
>  _And the stately ships go on_   
>  _To their haven under the hill;_   
>  _But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,_   
>  _And the sound of a voice that is still!_   
>    
>  _Break, break, break_   
>  _At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!_   
>  _But the tender grace of a day that is dead_   
>  _Will never come back to me._
> 
>  
> 
> \- Break Break Break by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

It takes them thirty minutes of walking to make it out of Seimora's Throne and to a little cliffside drop with a breathtaking view of the Midnight Belt; Tristan spends most of it alternately leaning on his cane and leaning against Vasco, who bears the extra weight with grace and without complaint.

When they arrive, there's already a blanket set out for them both. "So sure of my agreeance?"

"Of course. I am rather irresistible, after all. Who can say no to this face?" He raises his chin and rests it on a raised hand, smirking and waggling his eyebrows at Tristan.

Tristan laughs and shakes his head, easing himself down onto the blanket. "How could I forget." His voice is deadpan. "I see it everyday." Vasco looks mock-offended for a moment before dissolving into giggles and dropping to the blanket with that same liquid grace he always has.

Tristan catches on his last word. Everyday. He's not wrong, is he? He can count on one hand the number of days he's been without the airbrand's company in the past two months; could count on two the number of days he's been late. He knows from asking that the man has his own responsibilities to the burgeoning Consilio, chief among them being translation, and Tristan's not foolish enough to think that he's shirking his duties to spend time with him.

"I'd have thought you'd rid yourself of me by now, Vasco." Tristan does his best to make his voice easy, conversational.

"Why, my dear Valencio, would I want that?" 

He shrugs. "More important things to do, I'm sure, than t-tend to a broken man."

Vasco looks up at him from where he lay. "I thought I told you this before, Tristan. You're interesting." He waves a hand, forcing bored dispassion into his voice. "Of course, if you'd rather me gone..."

"No!" The fierceness of his response shocks him, but Vasco only smiles. Tristan takes a moment to reign himself in. Why does such a simple question rile him? Vasco shouldn't have to spend his time everyday tending him like an old maid. He should be somewhere else, searching ruins and changing the world. And yet, the thought of losing the precious hour a day he spends with the man makes his heart ache.

"Why do you ask, Tristan?" Vasco's voice is quiet, and his piercing eyes are locked on Tristan.

"Why do you think I'm interesting?" he counters.

Vasco almost seems to come up short. His mouth opens and closes, once, twice, as if he can't find the words to say what he needs. Tristan realizes, dimly, that this is the first time he's ever seen the man speechless.

“By all accounts, I shouldn't,” he says,  and Tristan hopes he won't stop there. “You were the reason I Salted, after all. Had to work hard to get my silver tongue back, because of you.” He laughs. “And, of course, there's the little matter of you almost killing both Cicero and everyone else he was with down there - which included me, thank you.”

He pauses, and Tristan feels guilt thick in his throat like syrup, cloying. Before he can offer an apology, however, Vasco’s already speaking once more.

“But, not two days later, you sacrificed yourself in one of the grandest and most foolish displays I've ever been witness to, my own notwithstanding.” He rolls over onto his back, staring up at the sky. “And, somehow, you save yourself, too.”

He finally looks back at Tristan, and there's something lurking in the depths of his eyes that makes Tristan look away, down at Vasco’s hands. One of them is splayed out near Tristan’s knee, and he's filled with the sudden urge to take it in his own, see if the callouses he felt months ago are still there. He doesn't doubt they are.

“Forgive me if I've overstepped,” he murmurs, and he turns, laying on the side faced away from Tristan.

Tristan can hear the hurt in his voice. He carefully, slowly puts his hand on Vasco's arm. “Vasco.”

Vasco turns to face him, a carefully blank expression on his face. “Hm?"

“You didn't - didn't overstep.”

A glance, and Vasco's eyes are glittering. He's reminded of those lashes fluttering over a damned sippy cup of all things, the gentle way he cared for Tristan’s hand when he was too lost in himself to care.

Vasco’s sitting up, then, making Tristan’s hand slide down his arm until it meets his own.

“Good, then. I'm glad.” There's something else waiting on the tip of Vasco's tongue, but Tristan doesn't dare think about what. Instead, he flicks his hand over Tristan’s, pale skin in sharp contrast. He grips it tightly, once, twice. Doesn't let go.

He casts a glance to the water, and Tristan’s eyes follow. “Have you ever seen something so beautiful?”

“Hm?”

“The Belt. It sparkles.” He looks at Vasco's face. His eyes are closed.

He could tease him, then, steer the conversation to safer, less weighty waters, but he finds he doesn't want to. Not now. “What do you see?”

“Too much,” he says, and thins his lips. “But it's good, surprisingly. Most of it, at least.” He pauses for a moment. “Have you tried using your mascherine again?”

Tristan shakes his head. After the last attempt, he didn't dare risk it again. “Do you want me to try?”

“Now, Valencio, I wouldn't ask you to put yourself in a difficult situation-”

“Vasco.”

“A little, maybe. Who knows, maybe it'll be better.”

Tristan sighs and pulls his hand from Vasco's. With a shaky breath, he feels his mask settle in his palm.

“Are you sure?”

“Sure as anyth-thing.”

As much as he tries to prepare, the feeling of ice that fills his chest makes it hard to breathe. Dimly, he knows he's gasping, but his hand flails out, catching Vasco's. His grip is probably bruising. Vasco doesn't seem to mind, just holds it tight and doesn't say a word.

Tristan squeezes his eyes shut against the memories - cold cold ice cold hurts it hurts can't breathe can't breathe - and fights to even his breathing. He’s come so far. He refuses to be lain low by his own mind.

He can still feel the ice around his fingers, but now there's Vasco, too - he's come closer to Tristan's side, almost wrapping an arm around him, and Tristan leans into him, letting his head rest on the other man's shoulder. He breathes in and out, deeply, trying to measure each one. He feels Vasco breathe deeply beneath him, and he matches his pace. In. Hold. Out. In. Hold. Out.

Eventually, he feels his eyes open, and he slowly relaxes the iron grip he has on Vasco's hand. His other is occupied rubbing soothing circles on his back while he whispers nonsense encouragment. Tristan slowly lifts his head from Vasco's shoulder, and he looks at the other man with a weak smile. The mascherine is still on his face.

"See? Told you it'd be better." Vasco's grin is blinding. "Now close your eyes." He doesn't let go of Tristan's hand.

Tristan closes his eyes obligingly. That feeling of coldicepain threatens to flood him at any moment, but he just focuses on that point of contact that grounds him, lets Vasco's voice keep him tethered.

"Come on, turn to face the water." He follows the directions, turning. "Now look. What do you see?"

Not much with my eyes closed, he doesn't say. Instead, he tries to push past the hurt and the cold, tries to focus on the memories he's largely ignored until now.

It comes in pieces, the brilliant water lit like the night sky, the sky itself lit up in a thousand different colors he could never name. It's nothing like anything he's ever seen. He doesn't think he'll ever have the words to properly describe it; he could spend the rest of his life trying and never come close.

"Do you see it?" Vasco's voice is soft close to his ear.

His own is a breathless whisper. "Yes. Ages, I see it."

He doesn't know how long they sit there, only that it feels like hours before he finally opens his eyes and pulls off his mask. He's leaned against Vasco fully, the other man's arm wrapped around his waist. He should want to move. He doesn't know what it says about him that he doesn't. When he looks at Vasco, the other man is already staring at him - Tristan has no clue how long he's been looking at him, if it's been any time at all.

"Do you see that all the time?"

"No," he says, and almost sounds sad. "Only when I think about it. I don't need my mascherine for it, though."

"How did you know I would see it with mine, then?"

A grin. "I didn't."

"Bastard." He's grinning, too.

They spend a while longer sitting there, letting Tristan get rid of the last feelings of ice on his skin and in his chest, and they both make their way back inside, Vasco grinning shamelessly when Kalden greets them at the door with an exasperated frown.

"We thought he'd been taken - well, I suppose he was. Next time you need to be freed from this vagabond, Valencio, feel free to leave a note." Kalden shakes his head, but the tone is more exhausted than truly annoyed.

"Sorry, Kalden. I thought we'd make better time." Tristan smiles in apology. "Next time I'll be sure to leave a note."

Kalden nods at him, looks at the blanket under one of Vasco's arms, the other looped around Tristan's waist to help keep him upright, and something softens in his expression. "You needn't do that, Tristan. I'll keep quiet."

Tristan frowns. There's nothing to keep quiet about, right? Still, if it means less nurses badgering him, the better. "Thank you, Mariner."

He nods again, gives them both a smile, and leaves them in the doorway of Tristan's room. He turns to Vasco to comment on the Mariner's odd behavior, but there's a strangled sort of expression on his face. "Are you alright?"

"Wha- of course! Nothing wrong, haha. I'll just-" He carefully extricates himself from Tristan's side. "Be gone then. Ta-ta. Goodbye. Have a wonderful evening."

He darts off before Tristan can speak, leaving him more confused than ever.

Tristan flops into his own bed, lays his cane against the nightstand, and dreams of stars inside oceans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emotions Happened. hey. i love it, y'all. ill ride this rarepair into the ground. ss trisco, all aboard.
> 
> find me on tumblr @kaytewrites or @banshee-44 / find me on twitter @actualflower


	5. it will surely have you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _O yes, you are very cunning,  
>  I can see that:  
> Out there in the snow with your red cart  
> And your wooly grey coat  
> And those ridiculous  
> Little grey leggings!  
> Like a rabbit,  
> A demure brownie.  
> O yes, you are cunning;  
> But do not think you will escape your father and mother  
> And what your brothers are!  
> I know the pattern.  
> It will surely have you—  
> For all these elfish times in the snow—  
> As commonplace as the others,  
> Little grey rabbit._
> 
> \- In The Next Yard, Helen Hoyt.

The next day, Tristan is greeted by a messenger in purple. He’s reading over that same droll report, now amended with even more paper, and he almost drops the entire thing onto his lap out of haste to tell the person at the door to enter. It’s around the time Vasco always visits, and he’s been meaning to speak to him -

“Tristan Delzole, sir?”

He shoves his disappointment down, compartmentalizes. He isn’t sure why he’s so disappointed, either, and it only serves to confuse him further. “Yes?”

“He wishes to extend his deepest apologies for not being able to be present for your regular meeting, sir.” Who exactly 'he' is goes unspoken. “He hopes to be back in a week’s time.”

His heart plummets. A full week, bereft of the other man’s company? He doesn’t think he’s been without him that long since he’s awoken. “Of course. I can only imagine what’s drawn him away is of the utmost importance.”

“Very important, sir. Top secret stuff.” The courier nods, pleased. “Do you have a message in return?”

He thinks for a long moment. “’Stay safe.’ And, well, ‘Come back soon.’”

The courier nods again before she bows and disappears from the room. As soon as the door shuts, it feels just a little darker than it was before.

Tristan dismisses it. He can survive a week without the other man. He didn’t even know him until a few months ago, anyway, and that was only as ‘one of Cicero’s friends.’ He can finally focus on helping to rebuild the Registry, too. Cicero will be glad to hear of that.

He swallows down the lump in his throat and gets back to reading.

* * *

 

He leaves his room of his own volition the next day, wandering and searching. He eventually finds Cicero’s office after several bouts of ‘walk, find a chair and sit for ten minutes, walk, repeat’. When he knocks, there’s the sound of paper flying, and then a harried “Come in!”

“Cicero?” Tristan’s voice is hesitant as he pushes the door open with his cane.

“Tristan! Good to see you up and moving!” He’s sitting on the ground, papers strewn all around him on the floor in what must be organized chaos.

“...What are you doing, Cicero?”

“Running a guild, of course. Ages, Tristan, how does the Vaorone even do this. They wanted to name me the Vaorone, too, but I turned it down - I don’t think accepting anything like that is even healthy for me right now, even though I’m practically doing the job anyway. Did you read the report I sent your way?”

Cicero’s always been a nervous talker. Tristan’s mouth curls into a grin, and he steps into the office proper, knocking the door closed behind him with his cane. “Yes, and all seven additions, too.”

“Good! Welcome to the brave new world, Tristan. There’s more paperwork than ever.” He scowls. “I wish I could just turn it all to fey, see if it would fix itself.”

“Come now, Cicero, it can’t be that hard.” His sarcastic tone earns him a glare from the man sitting on the floor.

“Get over here and help me, you ingrate. You had the last few months off, Valencio. There’s plenty of catching up to do.”

He sighs and levers himself down with a little difficulty, looking at the papers with an air of disinterest. “Well, that may have been due to the fact that I nearly sacrificed myself for you, you bastard.” He laughs. “No rest for the weary, huh?”

“Hey, I died, too.” His voice catches on the word ‘died,’ but his smile stays intact. Tristan takes it as a victory. “And no rest indeed. Come on, I don’t even know half these Portieri’s names but I’m expected to organize the rosters-”

* * *

 

A week passes in barely a blink once Tristan becomes reaccustomed to actually working rather than recovering. Without a Vaorone to lead them, the Registry looks to its Valencio for guidance, and it is a job and a half to try and keep what’s left of it standing.

So the week passes, and there’s not a whisper of Vasco. It’s fine. Tristan feels the loss of their time like a mosquito’s bite - his eyes pass to the clock everyday at their regular time, and when the flautist doesn’t appear, he packs away his disappointed and keeps focused. Something’s itching at him about it, though, as if not all is right in the world.

He dismisses the dour thoughts and keeps focused on pulling his guild back together.

* * *

 

They’re three days into week two before Tristan asks Kalden, “Have you seen Vasco?”

Kalden stops where he’s inspecting the scarring on Tristan’s stump, looking at Tristan with open concern. “No, I have not - not for the past week or so. Why do you ask?”

Tristan mumbles a response he can’t remember as soon as he says it, something meaningless. Kalden’s expression morphs to something unplaceable, brow furrowing and lips quirking as though he has a question to ask Tristan in return, but he says nothing. He just returns to his inspection, asking Tristan questions about his health (fine), his appetite (growing), his strength (returning), and his mascherine (usable).

He raises his eyebrow at the last answer, and Tristan shrugs.

Kalden sends him away with a clean bill of health and an appointment to return next week with any changes, and Tristan leaves the office leaning a little heavier on his cane as he walks, feeling unbalanced.

* * *

 

It is a full two weeks before Tristan mentions it to Cicero. They’re in his office, surrounded by paper (fortunately all contained to the desk this time, but surrounded nonetheless).

“Have you seen Vasco recently?” He tries to keep his voice nonchalant, conversational, but there’s more nervousness in his tone than he’d like.

“No. Why? I’m sure he’s doing...” Cicero waves a hand. “Important things.”

Tristan nods, still frowning.

Cicero looks at him strangely, cocking his head. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason, I just-” He’s speaking too fast, and he can feel the stutter like a trip in his tongue. He takes a moment to think of his words. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen him, is all.”

“Mmm.” Cicero’s grin is far too smarmy for Tristan’s tastes. “That’s it? Nothing else?”

Tristan scowls. “What else would there be, Cicero?”

Cicero searches his face for a moment, grin implacable, before it slowly falls. “Alright, alright. I’ll stop teasing. You shouldn’t worry too much, Tristan. He can handle himself.”

“I’m not worried. I’m no mother hen.” He doesn’t know why he feels the need to defend himself, only that he does.

Cicero shakes his head, a beat away from laughing. “Of course, Tristan. Whatever you say."

“I’m serious, Cicero!”

Cicero dissolves into laughter, which dissolves into Tristan smacking the back of his head, which further dissolves into the two of them getting into a petty slap-fight that ends when Cicero concedes defeat under Tristan’s one-handed assault.

* * *

 

Tristan is alone in his room-turned-office - he's been here so long the space has become unofficially-officially his own, especially since his rooms at the Spire are no doubt ruined. He's had the second bed removed, a small chest of drawers placed against the wall, and a proper writing desk installed. 

Currently, he is working on penning a letter; not to anyone in particular, but he finds it easiest to gather his thoughts when he writes them out. Increasingly, his thoughts have been focused on a certain absent Dirge.

_He occupies my thoughts incessantly. I'm uncertain as to why - over the past months I have begun to count him among my closest acquaintances, regardless of our turbulent history. He has become a fixed point in my life, our meeting times a cherished space, and I have been bereft of his company for too long. I hope he retur-_

“Is that my name? Oh, are you writing a letter to me? I'll cover my eyes - hey!”

Tristan whips around, quill dropped against the page in favor of the cane that leans against the desk. He brandishes it at the figure who's snuck into his rooms, ready to give them a sound thrashing, when he realizes that it's none other than Vasco himself.

“Vasco?”

“Surprise! Also, please stop threatening me with the cane. It's very rude to greet friends with a threatening cane-”

He's interrupted once more by Tristan levering up from his chair and launching himself at Vasco with a hug. He wraps his arms around Tristan in kind not a moment later, tucking his face into the crook of Tristan’s neck in a tight embrace.

“If this is the welcome I'll get whenever I leave…”

“As long as I'm around, it will be,” Tristan says, and means it. Having the man gone had made more of a void in Tristan’s life than he was willing to admit, but now that he’s back?

Vasco’s face twists into something Tristan can't quite name but smooths into an easy smile after a beat. “Well. Can't say I deserve all that after leaving so abruptly, but. Thank you.”

Tristan laughs. “Don't think I've forgotten so quickly, Tessitore. Almost three weeks gone, and not a work besides a messenger on the first day that says you'll be back within the week?”

“I planned to be back within the week,” he grouses, pouting, “but things rarely go according to plan around here.” He waves a hand in the air. “But everything is fixed, all is right in the world, and your favorite airbrand is back.”

“Cicero never left.” His voice is deadpan.

Vasco pulls away, holding both hands over his heart and swooning dramatically. “You wound me, fair Valencio."

That pulls a grin from Tristan. Vasco breaks his pose and leans against him, an arm slung over his shoulders. “What say we have another adventure, hm? I realize it's a little late, of course, but I can protect you. I promise on my honor.” The arm over his shoulders grips him tighter for a moment with the words. 

Tristan laughs and nods his head. Maybe Vasco’ll tell him more about where he went, too. “Lead the way.”

* * *

 

To Tristan’s surprise, a carriage is waiting for them outside Seimora’s Throne.

“Where are we going, Vasco?”

Vasco only grins. This can mean nothing good.

The Tvothes greet him with a wave and a smile. He's glad to see them hale - the last time he'd seen them had been on the way to the Spire. Ricardo looks fit to fall asleep, however, and Alena nudges him to attention with an elbow.

“Good evening, sirs!” Alena grins. “Off to-”

“The place we discussed? Yes, perfect, thank you,” Vasco interrupts, giving Alena a wink and a conspiratorial grin. Why is everyone grinning so much?

Alena nods. “Of course! Hop in, won't be long!”

Tristan looks between the both of them, an eyebrow raised, before being nudged onto the carriage. Vasco settles in next to him, warm against his side in the cooling night, and all of this casual contact after weeks of nothing has Tristan feeling a little off-balance.

“It’s a little ways away, sadly, so if you want to nap along the way, feel free. I can keep myself occupied.”

Tristan nods even though he doesn’t think he’ll sleep.

Five minutes after they set off, he’s already dozing to the gentle rock of the carriage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait! work has been kicking my ass recently q^q but we're here with another chapter! timeskips. no vasco. then, more vasco. tristan is a sad bean and then not. tristan is Confused by why his friends suddenly seem in on a joke he doesn't know. oh, tristan. we love you so.
> 
> up next: shit gets Gay™
> 
> find me on tumblr @banshee-44 or @kaytewrites / find me on twitter @actualflower


	6. thinking myself able to go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Love comes quietly,_  
>  _finally, drops_  
>  _about me, on me,_  
>  _in the old ways._  
>   
>  _What did I know_  
>  _thinking myself_  
>  _able to go_  
>  _alone all the way._  
>   
>  \- Love Comes Quietly, Robert Creeley

“-up, Tristan, come on, sleepyhead."

Tristan blinks groggily, his hand coming up to scrub at his eyes. He comes to awareness by degrees, realizing slowly that he’s leaned completely against Vasco, and that the steady weight on his shoulders is from the other man’s arm. Mortifyingly, he doesn’t want to move - which means, of course, he must.

He leans up quickly, smothering his awkwardness with a cough. Vasco just laughs.

“Come on. We’re here.”

Tristan wants to ask where he’s taken them, how long the trip was; when he looks out the carriage, he’s nowhere within the Citte that he recognizes. Something stills his tongue, however. He wants to see what Vasco is doing, why he’s planned all this out, it seems, to the last detail.

As he steps out of the carriage, the stillness and quiet make him pause. With all the green around, he’d hazard to say that they’re not in the Citte at all. He’s only been to the Randagia a few times, most of them excursions as a kid. As he got older and his responsibilities grew, he had neither the time nor the inclination to visit the hills and plains surrounding the Citte.

As Vasco leads them deeper into the twilight forest ahead of them, brushing past low-hanging branches and keeping a warm, steadying hand on Tristan’s shoulder, he knows he’s made a mistake of not visiting

“This is beautiful,” he breathes, words a quiet rush of whisper and wonder. The night has never been so quiet.

The look Vasco gives him is soft, filled with an emotion Tristan can’t quite place before it flits away, replaced by excitement. “If you think this is beautiful, wait ‘til you see what I’ve actually brought you here for.”

Tristan grins. The lost sleep will be worth it. He thinks that even if it’s not as beautiful, the lost sleep will be worth Vasco’s company.

It’s another few minutes of walking, hobbling over tricky underbrush and knocking away debris with his cane, Vasco doing his best to clear the path for him, before Vasco stops and turns around. “Close your eyes.”

Tristan obliges, and he hears Vasco settle on his right, an arm around his waist and one on his shoulder to help guide him. They take a few more steps, Vasco brushing away one last set of branches, and he feels those warm palms leave him. Where he was touched, bright spots of warmth linger past the chill.

“Alright. Open ‘em up, Valencio.”

Tristan opens his eyes and gasps.

The wide clearing is almost completely hidden from view by the surrounding trees - he thinks the only way anyone would find it is either seeing it from above or stumbling upon it. The space is dominated by a large pond, just shy of being a lake. The water is near-still, almost a mirror of the sky above, reflecting the moon as a perfectly round disk of soft light right in the center. He can feel the soft breeze in the air, night-chill made colder by the air off the water. The scent of flowers fills his nose, and he spots the dots of flowery clusters that cover the banks with the reeds and cattails. Each of the purple and white clusters is in full bloom, releasing a soft, gently floral perfume.

Vasco laughs. “Beautiful, I know. Not as nice as me, of course, but...” He laughs and rubs the back of his neck, nodding his head to a little blanket already laid out, a basket settled in the center, right next to the water’s edge. “Do you want to sit down?”

Tristan nods. He feels like he’ll stutter all over himself if he tries to talk.

Vasco drops to the ground with his normal grace, patting the space on the blanket next to him. Tristan has to fumble with his cane a moment, levering himself down with a plop. He’s glad to be off his feet; walking through the trees tired him more than he realized.

Vasco digs around in the basket for a moment, flashing a grin when he pulls out what he’s looking for: a bottle of champagne and two tall, thin glasses. He passes one to Tristan. He takes it wordlessly.

“What is all this f-for?” Tristan looks at the glass in his hand, twirling it by the stem. It feels like one of those important moments again, like the first time Vasco brought him lunch, or the first time they’d spoken when he had awoke. He doesn’t know what the name for this tight feeling in his chest again, all at once everything like the ice that had preserved him and nothing like it. He can’t meet Vasco’s eyes, even though he wants to.

Vasco is silent for a long moment. He pops the cork on the champagne with a twist, filling his own glass and holding out the bottle to fill Tristan’s. The bright liquid almost glitters in the light, bubbles catching the light and twisting it in the gold.

“I’ve been helping Amadea,” he starts, forced levity in his tone. “finding old ruins, translating for her.” Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Vasco swirl his own glass before downing it in a single pull. “The more I learn about the _Dimenticate_ , the less I seem to want to know.” He doesn’t say Dimenticate, but Tristan understands it all the same.

He laughs, something bitter in his voice, and lays down on the blanket. “History just repeats itself, Tristan. Over and over again. Did you know the _Dimenticate_ didn’t even invent mascherines?” Vasco shakes his head. “They found the tools to make them. Just like we did.” He drops the empty glass in his hand against the blanket with a soft thud. “How do you even - make sense of that?”

Tristan doesn’t know. He’s still reeling - here they were, thinking they had all the answers, and they really have none of them. He wants to reach out, take Vasco’s hand, but something keeps him still. That feeling of ice in his chest, maybe, or the knowledge that Vasco has given him. He isn’t sure which.

Vasco sighs. “But I didn’t bring you out here to complain. Honestly, I’m glad. If I’m the one she’s dragging around for translation, I can - handle it,” he finishes lamely. Tristan doesn’t think that’s exactly what he wanted to say, but he isn’t going to call him on it.

He closes his eyes. Tristan sees him raise a hand, tracing patterns in the stars. “Sorry. I’ve ruined the whole mood, haven’t I?”

“...I think it can be salvaged,” Tristan says after a beat. He watches Vasco’s hand flutter, tapered fingers almost dancing in the air. He takes a sip of his champagne to stop himself from saying anything foolish; it’s wonderfully light and bubbly, finer than what he usually drinks.

“Ever the optimist, Delzole.” His hand drops, and he opens his eyes. There’s that same soft look in his eyes, and Tristan wants to -

It hits him like a wave: he wants to always be looked at like that by him. By Vasco. He covers his surprise with another sip, longer this time, nearly finishing his glass. That ice seems to claw up his throat, making it hard to breathe. Everything makes sense, suddenly.

He must not be a very good actor, because Vasco’s looking at him with worry, sitting up on his elbows. “Are you alright, Tristan?” He frowns. “Do you not like the champagne? I have other things-”

“N-no, no, it’s fine. I’m - fine.” He’s not fine at all. He’s stuttering again, worried and nervous and off-kilter. He can’t -

Vasco sits up fully. “We can go back, if you’d like. I just - wanted to share this place. With you.” His voice drops low, as if the admission is one he’d never make in the light of day. It makes the ice in Tristan’s throat constrict. “Thought you could use the distraction. I realize running a guild may not be the most conducive environment to lowering stress.” He laughs, and Tristan wants to smooth the lines of worry away from his brow, wants to grab his hand in his own and tell him just how much this means to him.

Instead, he finishes the glass of champagne, setting the glass on the blanket, and asks, “What did you see in the stars?”

Vasco smiles, a small, fleeting thing Tristan wants to taste. “I can show you.”

He guides Tristan to lay back and summon his mascherine - they have yet to figure out why Vasco doesn’t need his to see the memories but Tristan does - before Tristan closes his eyes.

“Breathe,” Vasco says, and he feels the ice in his chest thaw, just a touch. Vasco’s hand is in his, and he raises Tristan’s hand to the sky. “Can you see it?”

“Yes,” Tristan whispers. The sky is a brilliant shade of deep violet, dotted with stars brighter than he ever thought possible, millions and millions and millions of them; he moves his hand, and they almost seem to move with it, like he’s playing in water. He laughs, giddy and excited like a child. “It’s - remarkable.”

He opens his eyes. Vasco is leaning close, eyes open and bare, staring at him with undisguised fondness. His eyes dart away quickly, and he pulls his hand away from Tristan’s. He didn’t realize they’d still been touching until he pulled away, and he misses it instantly.

“Well.” Tristan’s voice is quiet, almost hoarse.

“You know, I think this whole Salting thing might’ve worked in our favor,” Vasco says, a grin on his face. He’s looking out at the water, now - the pond has remained undisturbed their entire visit. The moon is off to the side of the pool, now; they’ve been here for at least an hour, maybe two. The time had passed in what felt like a blink.

Tristan hums his assent, leaving his mascherine in place. It doesn’t hurt anymore to leave it on, which he’s glad for. He missed it, all things considered. Besides, the faint cold it brings gives him something else to focus on, rather than - all of this. Vasco. Here.

They sit in silence for a long time, listening to the sounds of the forest around them, the sway of wind through leaves, the croak of a frog, the scamper of a squirrel. Tristan can feel himself drifting off, the only thing keeping him awake the chill of the night. He yawns loudly, stretching his arm out. Vasco’s pulled what looks like a flask from the basket, taking a sip every now and then.

It’s Tristan who breaks the silence. “Why did you bring me here, Vasco?”

Vasco sighs. “I don’t know, Tristan, isn’t ‘I found a nice spot and wanted to share it with my bestest friend’ a good enough reason?”

Tristan chuckles. “Sure, if you’d brought anyone else with us. Cicero, maybe. Amadea. Why did you bring me, Vasco?”

Vasco flops down next to him, upending the last of the flask in a swallow before speaking. “Because I like you, you oblivious fool.”

Tristan is frozen. Vasco continues, oblivious himself. “I know you Ombrians have your hangups about this kind of thing, and I’m technically Ombrian as well, but I was raised Rhunic, you know, and we don’t have nearly the same kind of problems with - relationships.” He waves his hands in the air, and his blasé tone helps break Tristan of the drowning feeling he’d been swept into.

Tristan is a man of tradition and circumstance. Someone who has a family, a storied Legacy, a branch on the tree where he’ll live out the rest of his life being worthy of being put upon -

But the Singing Tree is dead. Burned. The surviving songs are few and far between. Most people keep them as keepsakes, now. Most of his family’s Legacy - gone, just like that.

He breathes in. Breathes out. His mask fades from his face. He’d nearly died trying to protect this city. If that doesn’t guarantee a song, he doesn’t know what will.

“You’ll have to be patient with me,” he hears himself say. He’s not sure what it is - the night, maybe, or the soft lilt of Vasco’s voice as he spoke - that lets him speak this aloud. “Not overnight a whole lifetime of ideas gets unraveled and all.”

Vasco looks at him with nervous worry, with hope, something nascent and scared just behind his eyes. “Tristan, are you-” He pauses, gathers his words. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

He doesn’t quite believe it, himself. Maybe he’ll wake soon, and it will all be a dream. Nevertheless, he prides himself on being adaptable. “I think so, yes.”

Something settles in his chest, then, that ice-thick feeling thawing away to gentle surety - he’s still nervous, sure, who wouldn’t be? But all of the worry, all of the staring at the clock in that absent hour the past few weeks, that feeling of importance in their meetings, that afternoon on the cliff - all of it coalesces into a realization that he’s been blind to until now. Tristan feels a little dumb, seeing everything like this in his head.

He’s never had time for it, before; political maneuvering was never a fertile ground for affection to blossom. He’d had dalliances with women when he was still a student, but as he’d climbed the ranks of the Portieri to become Valencio, it had all fallen to the wayside.

Maybe that’s why he didn’t realize he was falling in love until now.

“I’m glad we’re on the same page, then,” Vasco whispers, smiling. He turns on his side, propped up by an elbow. “Tristan, there’s something I’d like to do.” There’s mischief in his voice.

Tristan raises an eyebrow.

“I would very much,” he says, leaning close to Tristan’s ear, an arm snaking over his chest and keeping him balanced, “like to kiss you, Tristan Delzole.”

There’s a quiet niggling thought he can’t get rid of in his head ( _this is a terrible, terrible idea, and you’ll regret it in the morning_ ), but he just nods. “I think I’d be amenable to that, Vasco Tessitore.”

Vasco’s lips are dry on his own, but soft, softer than he’d imagined they’d be. He kisses like he’s made for it, edge of his tongue teasing at the seam of Tristan’s lips, and he opens obligingly for him. If this is a dream, let it be a good one.

Tristan pulls away after a moment, already breathless. “What were you even doing for the past few weeks?” His voice is hoarse, quiet.

“Running, mostly.” Vasco is practically on top of him, arms bracketing his head. Tristan’s hand has found a home on the small of Vasco’s back. “Trying to figure out why I felt so strongly for a man I thought I’d hated for the better portion of a month, and then couldn’t stop thinking about for two.”

It’s more truth than he thought he’d get, but Tristan won’t take it for granted. “Well. I’m glad you don’t hate me anymore.”

“The jury’s still out on that one,” Vasco jests, and he leans down for another kiss.

Tristan lets his retort die on his tongue. He’d much rather be using it for other things, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *confetti*
> 
> find me on tumblr @kaytewrites / @banshee-44 || find me on twitter @actualflower


	7. too blind to see

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _They came to tell your faults to me,_  
>  _They named them over one by one;_  
>  _I laughed aloud when they were done,_  
>  _I knew them all so well before,—_  
>  _Oh, they were blind, too blind to see_  
>  _Your faults had made me love you more._  
>   
>  \- Faults, Sara Teasdale

They eventually wander back to the carriage - Alena instantly perks at seeing them emerge from the brush, shouting a happy “Hello, sirs!” while Ricardo blinks himself awake.

“Did you have a good time, sirs?” Alena chirps, far too chipper for how late (or how early) it is.

Tristan nods, glancing back at Vasco. He's still got that ridiculous smile on his face, the faintest brush of red around his jaw where Tristan’s beard had rubbed it raw.

“Of course, dear Alena!” Vasco’s voice is just as chipper. It makes Tristan want to laugh, or kiss him, or both. It’s new, this want that blooms in his chest and makes his fingers grip his cane a little tighter.

Tristan shakes his head and hobbles back onto the carriage. “Hope nothing bothered you out here - sorry for keeping you both up so late.”

“’Sfine,” Ricardo mutters. “Not like we would’ve been sleeping anyway.”

Alena elbows him, making him glare at his sister. “What he meant to say is that it’s no trouble at all, Valencio.”

Tristan raises an eyebrow. “As long as both of you are fine.” Tristan settles on his seat, Vasco settling next to him just like he did on the ride here - but it feels different, now. Vasco makes sure to settle on his left side, snaking a hand between them in the dark to twine his fingers in Tristan’s own, and it’s all so adolescent and silly that he can’t stop the little laugh that bubbles up from his throat.

“What?” Vasco mumbles, but the grin on his face says he knows exactly why Tristan’s a step away from giggling.

He decides to change topics, speaking low. “Do you think the twins are alright?”

Vasco frowns, a quick twitch of his lips. “Not at all. Cicero spends more time with them than I do, and Kalden besides. They might be the ones to speak to. Suddenly concerned with the Tvothes welfare?”

Tristan nods. “Yes, I suppose. I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of a parent the entire time they’ve been with the Registry. They’ve been with us for a year now, maybe two. I know the Citte isn’t - wasn’t - _isn’t_ kind to the Contadani, but I never thought...”

“Orphans were always more of a Sorelle affair, weren’t they?” Vasco’s voice is carefully blank, nonchalant in a way Tristan is learning means he cares far more than he lets on.

Tristan casts a glance to the twins; Alena is staring forward, chipper demeanor lost now that she doesn’t think eyes are on her. There are dark circles under her eyes from what he can see, and she slumps in her seat, exhausted. All of this he could attribute to the time, but considering her behavior earlier... Ricardo fares no better, either, though he wears his exhaustion plainly, not hiding it behind a cheery veneer.

He resolves to ask Cicero about the twins’ welfare once they return. He carefully settles his head on Vasco’s shoulder, wrapping his arm around the other man’s waist.

“The world is changing,” he thinks he hears Vasco say, but he’s asleep between one breath and the next.

* * *

 

They arrive back at Seimora’s Throne in the early hours of the morning, the horizon just barely tinged with the light of the sun. The twins give them both a salute as they disembark, looking more dead on their feet than ever.

“Do they have rooms here?” Tristan asks Vasco, to which he nods.

“They’ll stable the horses first, because they’re nothing if not dependable, and rest for the day - well, Ricardo will. Alena will probably sleep for an hour before forcing herself awake again.” Vasco shakes his head, tutting. “The girl never stops. She’s officially apprenticed, did you know that? Artigiani, if I’m not mistaken. Ricardo, too, though he is a Fabra.”

Tristan did not know. He didn’t even think the twins had the aptitude for that kind of careful maskwork - and yet, here they are. Color him surprised.

Vasco looks at him with some inscrutable emotion in his eyes. “You’ve always been a Masquerada, Tristan.” The smile on his face is not unkind, but it’s - it’s as though he’s staring a thousand yards off, reliving something in memory. “This is entirely normal for a Contadani.”

And of course Tristan knew. He knew how bad it was, he was Valencio, how could he not? But there was politics, and people, and Maskrunners - and somewhere along the way, the Contadani got left on the wayside.

He starts walking toward the Throne, a frown on his face. Vasco is just a step behind.

* * *

 

“Tristan, are you alright? You seem unfocused.”

It’s Kalden’s voice that breaks him out of his reverie. It’s been three days since his excursion, and he’s been absent-minded ever since, thoughts always finding a way to twist back to Vasco, or the Contadani, or the Tvothes. “I’m fine, Kalden. Why do you ask?”

“Mmm. I can see why you and Cicero are so close. You both do the same thing when there’s something on your mind.” He removes his hand from Tristan’s stump, handing his shirt back to him. Tristan tugs it on, tying off the end on his right arm while Kalden speaks. “Deflect to me so I can inform you what your tells are. Cicero does it far more than you do, but that may be because I spend more time with him.” Kalden sighs, shaking his head. “Both of you are a mess.”

“I do not-”

Kalden silences him with a look, and Tristan shuts his mouth.

He finishes tugging on his shirt before he speaks again.

“Vasco, I suppose. The Tvothes, too, but...” Tristan shrugs. “Were you ever Contadani, Kalden?”

The only thing betraying his annoyance is a twitch of the eyebrow and his carefully measured tone. “A rather personal question, Valencio.”

He winces. “Sorry. It’s just-”

Kalden smiles, annoyance smoothing over into understanding. “You might just be the only one of this little circle that hasn’t been Contadani, Tiziana excluded. And I presume this question doesn’t come from nowhere. Perhaps something to do with what’s been bothering you?”

“Now who’s asking pointed questions,” Tristan mutters, but doesn’t answer.

Kalden is silent for a long moment, pulling his mask from his face and letting it fade into the ether. He huffs. “Alright, Tristan. Cicero’s door, as well as mine, are always open to you.” There’s a strange twist to his mouth as he speaks the next, his eyes almost guarded. “If there is anything - _anything_ \- you may wish to speak about, we are always here for you.”

Tristan feels as though he’s missing something, but he’s already pushed as far as he dares. He doesn’t want to break the bounds of Kalden’s kindness - _woe be unto the man that turns a good man hard_ , and all that. “Thank you,” he says instead.

Kalden nods. “If there’s any more phantom pain, tell me. There are some exercises I want to go through with you next time.” He levers himself off the chair next to the bed, heading for the door. “I think I’ve taken enough of your time today, though, Tristan.”

“You’re never a burden, Kalden. It’s always a pleasure to see you.” Tristan speaks with a smile. He really does enjoy the other man’s company, for all his occasional crypticism. At least he’s not as bad as Vasco.

And then, there’s that same almost-guarded look in Kalden’s eyes. “I was serious when I said - _anything_ ,” he says.

Tristan struggles to put together what he means - it’s obvious there’s something he’s missing, something Kalden hopes he’ll put together himself so he won’t have to speak it aloud. “Alright,” he responds slowly, hoping Kalden will just assume he understands.

Kalden just sighs, giving him a wave as he leaves. Damn. Guess he wasn’t that convincing after all.

* * *

 

He likes to think now that everything’s over, this is the easy part. He’s missing an arm, sure, and he’s still limping, months after the worst chapter of his life closed with his almost-death, but he’s alive. The Citte is alive. The Consilio argue, sure, but they agree more often than not and that’s a miracle in and off itself. The guilds have become more peaceable, less fractured. It’s a world Tristan never thought he’d see. It’s a world he’s glad to wake up to.

Not everything is perfect, though.

He dreams like this: snapshot images of the Spire burning around him, smoke in his lungs his throat his eyes - he blinks, and the world changes, stars in his eyes and cold in his chest. He reaches for a sword he doesn’t have with an arm he doesn’t have, either, and when he drops to his knees, there’s a sneering face above him, sword at his throat, and he’s falling as they kick him back off the bridge. He claws at the mask on his face, begging it to save him one last time, but it flutters to dust in the air, to ether, and he knows he must be dead, must be, it’s the only way they glow like that -

“Tristan!” calls a voice to his side, and he’s darting up from his desk and whipping his arm out wildly, trying to push away whatever’s trying to hurt him next -

It takes him a long moment to come back to himself. “Vasco?”

He’s got a hand to his nose, and something conspicuously red is dripping from between his fingers. “Ages. This how you greet a friend?” There’s a hint of a laugh in his voice, but it’s smothered by his wince.

“Ages, ages, Vasco, I’m sorry, I didn’t even think-”

He gives a short sort of cut-off laugh, holding his nose pinched between two fingers. “Next time, I’ll let you nap.”

Tristan ushers Vasco to the bed, making him sit and grabbing a cloth from the bedside table to dab at the blood. He inspects it carefully, moving Vasco’s hands away with a huff. It doesn’t look broken, which he’s thankful for - _ages_. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he’d actually broken Vasco’s nose. Probably feel even more guilty than he already does.

Vasco looks far too bemused by the whole affair. “If I’d known all it took to get your attention was waking you from a nap, I’d have done it more often - even with the danger to my face.” It’s a joke and a question all in one - Tristan can hear the unspoken _how often do you wake fighting?_ in his voice.

Tristan doesn’t answer. He has a feeling it’s far more often than either of them would like.

“I’m sorry,” he says instead, and prepares himself to summon his mascherine. He can at least heal this, his own problems be damned -

\- but Vasco rests a hand on his arm, distracting him. “Now now, you’re a hard working man. I won’t begrudge you a nap at your desk - though your bed is barely ten feet away, you know, and much softer than the one they gave me.” He emphasizes by leaning back against the pillows, sighing - and then flinging a hand up with a wince when he jostles his swelling nose with the motion. “Damn,” he grins, and then drops the grin when that, too, exacerbates the injury.

Tristan feels a smile tug at the corners of his lips, but the guilt still writhes in his chest. “I shouldn’t have been sleeping, anyway - I knew you were coming by, and I know how I am when I’m woken.” It’s an answer of a sort to the question Vasco didn’t ask.

Vasco’s face takes on that inscrutable emotion again - Tristan is becoming more familiar with it by the day. He redirects the conversation ever so slightly, which Tristan is grateful for. “Does it look broken, then?”

“No, thankfully. Just bruised.”

“Damn. Maybe a broken nose could enhance my ruggedly good looks - how about you punch it again for good measure?”

“You absolute bastard,” Tristan admonishes. Vasco has a shit-eating grin plastered to his face, and Tristan knows it has to hurt his nose, but he doesn’t even flinch.

Tristan finishes cleaning up Vasco’s face with a deft, practiced hand - most of the waterbrands were taught at least rudimentary first aid, Tristan included, seeing as it’s the element most tuned to healing. He makes to summon his mascherine again, but Vasco shakes his head. “Nah. I think it’ll be fine.”

Tristan thinks of all the times Vasco has seen him struggle with the thing, and realizes Vasco is much kinder than he gives himself credit for.

He’s holding a new cloth to his nose, but now he’s leaned back against the pillows and the headboard. Tristan shutters the thought that he looks good there before it even begins to float around in his head. He just punched the man in the face, not three days after kissing him -

Tristan feels his cheeks heat, and the silence suddenly becomes thick, awkward between them.

“Have you seen the twins recently?” Tristan asks, for lack of things to fill the space. He still hasn’t asked Cicero about them, and mentally kicks himself.

“Nope,” Vasco answers, popping the ‘p’. “Not since our little adventure.” His eyes turn fond, and Tristan feels the distance between them keenly; he remembers it being closed, remembers Vasco’s breath mingling with his own in the night air -

Shame floods him, and he bites it back, shoves it down his throat, swallows it. What had he said? _You’ll have to be patient with me._ Ages, if he isn’t feeling it now.

Vasco’s face drops into a frown. “Tristan, I don’t - I was under the assumption we were on the same page.”

Tristan is quick to soothe, almost jumping off the bed in his haste. “No! Yes, I mean - we were - are - are on the same page. I just...” He slumps, running a hand through his hair. Oddly, he thinks about how he needs to get it cut, and shunts the thought from his mind to focus on the matter at hand.

“I’m sorry. I haven’t seen you these past three days. It’s been,” he pauses; he knows his next words might hurt, but they’re the truth: “It’s been easier to not think about what happened, honestly. I don’t want to forget it, but -” He looks at Vasco, pleading. He doesn’t know what he wants; here, in the light of day, it’s harder to face than in the dream-soft haze of night.

Vasco’s lips twist into a frown. “Sorry for pushing you, then. If you’d rather forget-”

“Ages, Vasco, I just told you I didn’t want that!” Tristan lets his irritation seep into his voice. “I just think that maybe it’s - ill-advised at best. Or maybe I’m overreacting! There are barely even Legacies anymore,” and his voice tapers off, finally noticing the hurt look on Vasco’s face.

“So that’s what this is about,” Vasco breathes, and Tristan feels like a fool.

“Yes? No. Maybe. I don’t know!” The fight dies in him, irritation cooling to regret. “Sorry. You don’t - deserve this. I’m-” _being a child, being foolish, being an idiot_ , he wants to finish, but the words die in his throat. “Sorry. You shouldn’t have to be so patient with me.”

Vasco sighs, frown slipping from his lips to something fonder. “You’re an idiot,” he says, and when Tristan nods it makes him laugh; it’s the best sound Tristan’s ever heard, even when he winces and his nose starts bleeding again.

Tristan’s hand is dangerously close to Vasco’s where they lay on the bed, and he debates whether he should take hold of it for far too long - long enough that Vasco notices his internal argument and just grabs his hand himself, pulling him closer on the bed. It’s a little precarious, and Tristan feels like he might fall off any moment now, but he can feel where Vasco’s hip presses against his own, and when Vasco winks up at him and drops the hand holding the cloth, well -

He’s always been weak to a pretty face.

He’s careful of Vasco’s tender nose as he leans forward, pausing just before their lips meet.

“Second thoughts, Valencio?” Vasco says, and there’s something underneath the words that makes Tristan want to wrap his arms around Vasco and never let go.

“Not now,” Tristan says instead, and means it.

The kiss is slow, careful, almost an apology. Vasco reciprocates readily, deepening it with a sigh.Tristan is lost in the sensation of it, Vasco’s hand sliding onto his neck, deft fingers curling into his hair. There’s intent behind the motion, and when Vasco tugs on it ever so slightly as he takes Tristan’s lower lip between his teeth, he gives a sharp inhale.

Vasco lets him breathe a moment - it’s new, here, with just them, nothing outside this room feeling more real than where they press together, Tristan near sitting in Vasco’s lap - and he’s just a touch overwhelmed.

 _Just a touch,_ he consoles himself, as Vasco’s nose begins to bleed anew. It prompts a string of curses from the other man, and Tristan laughs.

“You’re the one that gave me this damn problem,” he grumbles, but he can’t quite repress the smile on his lips. “What were you even working on before I arrived, anyway?”

“A report,” Tristan says, then wrinkles his nose. “I’ll probably have to rewrite it. I tend to - drool.”

Vasco laughs, which makes Tristan pout, which makes Vasco kiss him until he stops pouting. It’s a good deal, all things considered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am SO SORRY for the wait but like... life comes @ u fast y'all but its here!!! chapter 7!!!! and i've officially given up bc i think it'll probably be another two chapters before this is over but like i said that two chapters ago and HERE WE ARE ANYWAY so like... be patient w/ me blease im trying ;^;
> 
> i made this an extra 1000 words bc y'all had to wait so long n im sorry but i hope y'all like it!
> 
> more kisses for the boys. more boys kissing. more boys being vulnerable and soft w/ each other. it's Good all around.
> 
> find me on tumblr @kaytewrites or @banshee-44 / find me on twitter @actualflower !! <3


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